Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 94048 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94048 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
“The Don wants to talk to you,” he says when I come over. Then he hesitates and cringes. “He’s pretty pissed.”
I share a look with Stefania. She shakes her head, eyes wide, trying to say that she didn’t tell him. My hands curl into fists, and I look over my shoulder. Davide also seems mystified.
But I can’t think of another reason why my father would be angry, except that he somehow found out about Emily before I had a chance to tell him.
Which is bad. I want to break it to him on my terms so he understands that my motivations are all about the Famiglia, and that I’m serious about making this work.
Instead, my father, the unstable Don, knows, and my entire plan might be fucked before it even begins.
Chapter 15
Emily
Simon comes storming into the house. I hear him stomping around downstairs, and I pull into myself even tighter, afraid to leave the room. I’m already pretty sure I made the biggest mistake of my life when his steps come closer and stop right outside my door.
“Emily,” he says and knocks gently. I’m surprised—I expected him to kick it down and come storming in here like he owns the place. Because he does, and now he owns me too.
I sold myself to this man. That’s the horrible, ugly truth, and I can tell myself that I did it for all the right reasons, but I still exchanged myself for money.
“What do you want?” I call out and peel myself off the bed. It really is a beautiful room—the sort of room I would’ve loved in another life. Lots of antiques, soft earth tones, original hard wood, and an obscenely comfortable bed.
The door opens and he looks inside. “Emily, I need you to get dressed.”
I look down at myself and back up again. “I am dressed.”
“Something nice.” He comes into the room and rifles through the closet. There are clothes inside, but it’s not my stuff. “Here, this will do.” He waves a basic silk blouse in cream at me and a pair of black slacks.
“First, not my style. And second, whose is that, anyway?”
“It’s yours. I figured out your measurements and had some things sent over in anticipation of you marrying me.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Okay, I have a lot of questions. You figured out my measurements?”
“I broke into your apartment, stole some of your clothes, and used them as a model.” He waves a hand in the air as if he hadn’t seriously violated my space and trust. “Honestly, none of this is relevant. We have a change of plans and I need you to get dressed.”
“You can’t just storm in here and drop a bomb like that and expect me not to react.” I get to my feet as my anxiety slides toward anger. “You have to stop breaking into my apartment, Simon. I’m serious, and I can’t believe I had to just say that.”
“You live here now. It seems silly to break into my own house. Now please, get dressed.” He lays the clothes out on the bed and nods his approval. “Do you have appropriate underwear?”
“Appropriate—?” I throw my hands up. “What is the matter with you?”
He touches a finger to his lips. “Something black and lacy would be fine.”
“My underwear is entirely irrelevant to this situation,” I say through my teeth. “Are you seriously going to be this controlling our entire relationship?”
“Most likely.” He walks to one of the drawers and pulls it open. Inside is a beautiful display of jewelry filled with rings, earrings, necklaces, and bracelets. He selects a couple of simple pieces—a diamond ring, a pair of diamond studs—and lays them out. “This will do very nicely. Now, get dressed.” He steps back, arms crossed, as if he expects me to strip down in front of him.
The goddamn audacity of this prick. If I weren’t so upset at myself right now, I’d probably have a meltdown and start throwing things. Lucky for him, I’m too stunned to go right to violence.
“Listen to me, you megalomaniac. I am not going to let you dress me like a goddamn doll. I’m not your toy. I’m not your plaything. I’m your wife, and you’ll treat me with a modicum of respect. You overgrown dickhead.”
He looks amused at my tirade. “Are you done? Because I need to introduce you to my father in approximately ten minutes, and I’m very positive that’ll go over better if you’re wearing this—” He gestures at his ensemble. “Than if you’re wearing that.” He gestures at me.
I could scream.
Seriously, I could scream while also bashing his skull in with a hammer.
What kind of mafia guy has this much to say about a woman’s clothing? Shouldn’t he be too busy lifting weights and, like, splitting wood or doing something manly?
But the problem is he’s totally right.